


Angel Dust’s Not So Illustrious Life

by The_Necessity_of_Darkness



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is a mama’s boy, Angel in case that somehow wasn’t clear, Apology baking, Asexual Alastor, Asexual Character, Awkwardness, Backstory, Be prepared for 1920s slang, Cajun/Creole Alastor, Character Study (kinda), Feelings are Scary, Flirting (kinda), Fluff and Angst, French!, Getting to Know Each Other, I made these two so soft I CAN’T, Insecure Angel, Just suggestive, M/M, Miscommunication, No Sexual Content, Protective Alastor, Sex-Repulsed Alastor, Sexual Jokes, Soft Alastor, Touch-Averse Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), alastor is morosexual, bonding over cooking, hypersexual character, mentions of abuse, slowburn but not too slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Necessity_of_Darkness/pseuds/The_Necessity_of_Darkness
Summary: Alastor isn’t sure why he’s become Angel’s primary target, but the more he attempts to dissuade Angel’s advances, the more fervent they seem to become.And maybe Alastor likes that...maybe...Yet it seems there’s more to Angel than innuendos and a quick romp.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 509





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel attempts to woo the radio demon with his usual methods but gets no where.

Alastor was nestled in the dimly glowing light of the kitchen, humming to himself as he began chopping onions, peppers, and celery. Charlie and the others had seemingly elected to leave him to his own devices while he prepared dinner. That was alright: he knew they didn’t trust him, most likely never _fully_ would, and it took some warming up to a person before choosing to be alone with them. Yet, after all, he was _used_ to being alone. It was easier to be that way when so well-known: no appearances to keep up, no expectations to uphold. Besides, he couldn’t blame them for not wanting any parts of a murderous cannibal with a homicidal headcount breaching the hundreds.

All-in-all, his entrance to the hotel had been well received. Though Vaggie was distrustful and Angel was...well, a bit forward with his _advances_ , Charlie was an absolute doll. She was almost too willing to accept his help.

Yes, he pondered, today had been a successful venture.

His smile widened, static rolling in his throat as he prepared the venison. The knife tore deliciously through the roast, which he cut into slivers, then diced into smaller cubes. He threw them into a dutch oven, of which the bottom had been coated with a layer of oil. The meat sizzled when in contact with the heat, earthy tones wafting from the pot, mingling with the characteristically gamey scent venison always exuded. The aroma settled low in Alastor’s gut, somewhat alleviating the pit of endless hunger which never seemed to desist. 

Venison was one of his favorite indulgences. It tasted so freshly of a recent kill, had the irony tang like that of blood, a texture as if tearing meat unwillingly from a corpse. Yes, he thought, toothy grin widening as he looked down at the pot, he would eat well tonight. He would never be satisfied, but he could indulge nonetheless.

The holy trinity of vegetables was thrown into the vat alongside the meat. Sautéing nicely, the odor of the vegetables now tangled together with that of the deer. Alastor was about to materialize another pot to boil water for the rice when his ears twitched at the sound of the door being pushed open. Humming, he shifted slightly to see Angel saunter through the door.

“Angel, my dear!” he chirped, filling a large pot with water from the faucet. After it was filled about halfway, he set it down with a clink on the burner and turned up the dial. “Much of the preparation is done, I’m afraid!”

“Maybe I can help ya wit something else?” Angel purred—yes, Alastor thought that was the only way to describe it—linking his hands almost suggestively in front of his waist.

Static emanated more strongly from his throat, rising to match his growing unease. “No, no, I’m sure I’m alright for now, dear. You could help with the rice, if you’d like?” He gestured at the pot boiling on the stovetop and the bag of long-grain white rice on the counter. An uncomfortable and trapped feeling prickled at his neck, made him distract his hands with the cloth hung on the front of the stove; move around to check that everything was in order. Angel’s interested gaze remained pinned to his back as he did so, which proved only to make that claustrophobic type of feeling metastasize like cancer: Alastor felt like _prey_.

“Who said anythin’ bout helping witha food?” said Angel, resting against the kitchen counter.

“If you aren’t referring to food, then I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer, my good fellow!” Alastor said, voice a touch strained, smile twitching slightly at the edges but never falling. He pulled the lid off the dutch oven, pouring a helping of broth into the pot and stirring before beginning to season the meat and vegetable mixture: onion and garlic powder, dried oregano and basil, cayenne pepper, salt, some Worcestershire sauce, and some hot sauce for an added kick—well, “some”. His mother always liked to spice up the batch.

Upending a can of diced tomatoes into the mixture, he inhaled fully, beginning to stir the stew together slowly—almost lovingly in fact. After all, momma always told him an extra dash of love made a big difference. The way to any man’s heart was through his stomach, and the way to any woman’s heart was charm—it helped to have both.

After Angel hadn’t spoken for a while, Alastor threw a glance his way. The spider seemed temporarily subdued into silence, for whatever reason. That cocky smile which had adorned his face mere moments ago was now a ghost of its former self. His eyes were downcast, not in disappointment, but bemusement.

“Something wrong, dear?” Alastor said, humming a gentle tune. Whenever his mother cooked on the weekends, she would murmur a tender melody as she maneuvered around the kitchen. She had a grace to her, a quiet and unassuming elegance. She let Alastor use the knife to shape the meat, let him stir the pot and serve the dishes. It was always a several-hour long spectacle, kitchen the warmest room in the house, radio playing soft music in tandem with his mother’s humming. Shaking his head as if to dislodge the memories like shards of glass, he focused again on Angel, whom looked only marginally more composed.

“‘S nothin’,” Angel mumbled, not convincing whatsoever. He forced himself to smirk, golden tooth gleaming in the low light. “Maybe you’ll reconsider. After you’re finished with yer dinner, maybe I can get ya some dessert?”

Alastor straightened with intrigue. “Dessert sounds quite marvelous, dear. What did you have in mind? I know a wonderful recipe for beignets and coffee!”

The spider demon just seemed dumbfounded, which filled Alastor with gentle confusion and flowering amusement in equal measure. “Yeah,” he murmured, looking slightly put out. “Whatever ‘beignets’ are...sounds great.” With that, the spider demon crossed his pairs of arms over his chest and left the kitchen.

Odd, thought Alastor, who shrugged and returned to his cooking and humming.

Once the venison, vegetables, broth, and seasonings had all stewed for long enough, he poured the large vat of the mixture on top of the rice in the other pot. The white rice soaked up the broth like a sponge, going soft and squishy at the added liquid. Meat and vegetables swirled around as Alastor stirred the ingredients together. With a ladle and a stack of bowls, which he materialized with a mere snap of his fingers, he began to dole out helpings of the jambalaya for each resident—making sure to leave a large enough serving for himself, and enough for leftovers if need be.

“Oh, Charlie!” he hollered in a singsong voice, devious grin softening into something a little more prideful, a little more hospitable. The cacophonous sounds usually emanating from his maw became tempered by a mixture of nostalgia and satisfaction, softening into more of a purr than a crackle. “ _Le dîner est servi_!”

Several moments later, Charlie entered through the kitchen doorway, ushering the other patrons into the room with a large, welcoming gesture. “It smells amazing, Al!” she said, smile widening. It was obvious that she was being genuine: then again, she was very rarely disingenuous about anything. Vaggie, however, was grumbling about how the food was probably poisoned, or something equally scathing.

“ _Merci beaucoup_ , darling,” Alastor said, waving his hand with an exaggerated flourish. The umber dining chairs scraped against the floor as they all pulled out in invitation for their guests to sit. The dishes plated with generous heaps of food teleported from the counter to the table, paired with proper silverware and glasses topped off with bubbly, amber-colored chardonnay.

“ _Bon appetit_!” Alastor said, seating himself promptly at the head of the table. He watched in varying degrees of amusement as each individual dug in.

Nifty was dainty as always, laying a napkin over her lap and taking a meager sip of water; Vaggie prodded at the food with the tines of her fork before tentatively taking the first bite; Husk, used to Alastor’s Louisianan cooking, began scarfing the food down unceremoniously; Charlie excitedly ate a forkful, beaming afterwards until her eyes practically resembled hearts; Angel smirked at the plate before taking a bite, sucking on the utensil just a little too long to be unintentional, moaning just a bit too loudly to be accidental.

Something proud and soft bloomed in his chest, loosening his insides. The feeling sat warm inside him where the swell of emptiness usually rested. How curious: he felt somewhat sated. Quite interesting that treating people to a nice meal made him feel halfway _decent_.

“Hey, what’s this made of? The meat I mean?” said Angel, taking an eager forkful and practically moaning in ecstasy.

“Why, it’s venison!” Alastor exclaimed, voice low enough for only Angel to hear. His smile widened. “Deer _is_ one of my favorites.” As if to punctuate his point, he stabbed his fork into the tender meat and popped it into his mouth.

Angel seemed unperturbed by the admission that Alastor enjoyed eating his own kind. If anything, he seemed blissfully oblivious—either that or he realized and simply didn’t care. Regardless, he plowed onward and said, smirk curling wider, “Well no wonder it’s so good—I have a taste for deer too, y’know.”

Static slowly began buzzing louder from Alastor’s throat. The noise started as a gentle hissing, almost white noise, morphing into something more discordant as his discomfort swelled. “Well, it’s nice to meet someone else of good taste,” he gulped, a single claw pulling at the collar of his suit jacket. A sudden flash of heat smothered him like a blanket.

Angel seemed decidedly unaffected by Alastor’s attempt at aversion. “Oh, I sure do have a good taste. Wanna try?” he smiled, gesturing at his bosom with a wink and a lick of his lips.

“No, thank you,” Alastor said, averting his gaze to his plate. “I trust you’re being truthful without requiring proof, my dear.”

With a soft huff, Angel returned his attention to his food. “Whatever ya say, toots,” he declared past a mouthful of jambalaya, sticking the fork down his throat to an almost uncomfortable degree, making curious gagging motions as he did so. All throughout dinner, Angel looked at Alastor with half-lidded predatory eyes. The radio demon said nothing of it, only kept his gaze on his plate, making small talk to Charlie to avoid the anxiety clinging to his skin whenever Angel Dust looked his way.

* * *

When Alastor saw Angel next—a week must have passed in between, at least—he wasn’t so entirely stricken with discomfort. The time in between had blurred Alastor’s intense aversion into something more diluted: averted eyes turned into a wary gaze, crossed arms into linked claws, awkward laughter into a twitching grin. He couldn’t exactly articulate what it was about the spider demon that set his teeth on edge.

“Going somewhere?” Alastor said, smile going dangerously wide as he saw Angel creeping towards the front door. He might not have commented on the spider’s attempt at escape had he been a little less conspicuous about it, but it was amusing, as it were, to see Angel’s face whip around at the sound of his voice.

Angel looked startled for a moment before his mouth melted into a smirk. “What’s it to ya, toots? Want in on some of the action?” He fluffed up the fur on his chest, and it was at that moment that Alastor realized Angel was dressed even more...provocative than usual. He wore garter belt stockings, with dangerously spiked heels. His shirt had long flowing sleeves and exposed his midriff. It was a criss cross top of which his fur tumbled from the open chest area. He was also wearing ridiculously small shorts, which only covered up to his mid-thigh. Alastor noticed after another moment that his makeup was different too, the characteristic hot pink traded for an electric blue eyeshadow and much darker lipstick.

Alastor cleared his throat before shaking his head. Heat crept up his neck under his collar, and his insides seemed to fill with a tingling, uncomfortable warmth. “Where are you going?” he reiterated—though he already had a few guesses—voice engulfed by a renewed layer of static filtering. “Has Charlie...approved?” Alastor regretted his words when Angel sauntered closer. Four pairs of gloved hands cupped angled hips, which swayed in an almost gentle, hypnotic way: Alastor was resistant to the charm, even a bit disgruntled.

Fingers ghosted over his chest, featherlight. “I do what I want,” Angel simpered, pulling on Alastor’s bow tie, playing with it gently. “And ‘m sure ya know where. C’mon, I can show you a good time too.”

Alastor gripped his hand with a constrictive claw, wrenching it from his throat. He clenched so hard that Angel’s muscles seized. “I’d advise against touching me, my dear,” he murmured past bared teeth. “I simply asked about your whereabouts.”

The smirk plastered on the spider’s face faltered just slightly. He jerked his hand away, positioning it back on his hip. “Touchy, touchy,” he mumbled, smirk re-emerging. “Lighten up, Smiles. I knew you were old-fashioned, but geez.” He waved his hands in a placating gesture before commencing, “I told Charlie already. Val texted me about a john I need ta visit, that’s where I’m goin’: happy now?”

Embarrassment unfurled low in his stomach: after all, it was very unbecoming to show any sort of negative emotion, and he had just revealed an immense level of aggravation. He shouldn’t have let Angel know he could so easily get under his skin.

“Very well,” Alastor said, brushing off the front of his suit jacket. The phantom of Angel’s touch still lingered, ghosting over his chest. It made his stomach roil, made a flare of malaise stir in his chest like someone stoking a fire. “You may leave.”

Angel scoffed, but his smug expression didn’t waver. “Catch ya on the flip side, toots.” He blew a wet, exaggerated kiss that made Alastor tense and bristle somehow simultaneously. As much as he tried to hide the reaction, the spider noticed, eyes clinging to the movement like bees to honey—and his simpering smile only broadened. “I’ll be thinkin’ of ya in bed.” With a wink and a flippant flash of the peace sign, Angel had opened the door and slammed it shut in the span of a few seconds.

Alastor was left in the foyer, staring at the place where Angel had been standing mere moments ago, brief flashes of mental images creeping into his mind that preceded to make him gag. He wanted to keep all of his extremities to himself, thank you. He also didn’t wish to be Angel’s fodder for a masturbation session.

Physically shuddering, he pushed the thoughts from his mind and endeavored to forget any of what the spider demon had even said.

* * *

Alastor went several days without seeing Angel again. It wasn’t intentional—as much as Angel Dust’s lewd jokes set his teeth on edge and made his fur stand on end, he found amusement in watching the spider demon’s altercations with Vaggie, as well as other shenanigans he got up to in the hotel. He also, though he wouldn’t openly admit it, found a certain intrigue in Angel. Most of his interest lay in the fact that Angel was actually _trying_ to become better.

As often as Angel grumbled about hating his curfew, cursed about the lack of drugs, got into moody fits when he didn’t get his way—he was at least _trying_ to be good. Alastor watched him hesitantly ask Charlie if there was anything he could help with; dust the hard-to-reach places for Nifty when he saw her struggling; wash shot glasses for Husk when he was passed out behind the bar from some indistinct mixture of copious amounts of alcohol combined with cataclysmic levels of exhaustion. They were small, fleeting moments, often succeeded by snappy comments from Angel. It was as if each time he caught himself doing something out of the goodness of whatever of his heart remained, he tried to quash it down with an unrelenting fist.

Angel even seemed more inclined to refrain from his usual comments in Alastor’s presence. The flirting and touching still remained to a degree, paired with the off-handed and occasional sexual joke or blatant erotic suggestion, but Angel’s hyper sexuality seemed to have been tempered slightly by his stay at the hotel. It was as relieving as it was simultaneously disconcerting—simply for the fact that it was _Angel_ making himself aware of other people’s discomfort and trying to modify his own actions.

Of course, Alastor just had to catch the spider in one of his more lascivious moods.

Angel was licking haphazardly at a popsie as Alastor came through the kitchen doorway, looking for something to sate himself—as much as one who was eternally hungry could—while filling out some very bland paperwork. Demons were starting to filter into the Happy Hotel from all edges of the Pentagram, which excited Charlie to an endless degree—and also caused a subsequent swell of anticipation in Alastor’s own gut at the prospect of new means of entertainment. However, a massive influx of residents meant vast amounts of paperwork to oversee. As a beneficiary and a sponsor of said hotel, Alastor had become obligated to keep some of the more fiscal and communal departments under his jurisdiction—something he ultimately ended up loathing.

“Ya look a little tense, hot stuff,” Angel observed, eyes squinting. His lips curled further into a grin around the tip of his popsicle. The dessert disappeared further down his throat, suggestively almost, far too poised and meticulous to be anything but a pantomime of giving a blow job. He continued to suck and lick unceremoniously at the phallic-shaped popsicle before murmuring, “I could maybe release a lil’ of that, hmm? Since yer my pal, I could even do it free o’ charge.”

Annoyance and absolute exhaustion mitigated the majority of awkwardness Alastor would usually feel when confronted with Angel’s advances. “I happen to be uninterested in the ‘services’ you provide, my dear fellow,” he said as he opened the pantry cabinet, unearthing a packet of deer jerky he had hidden for safekeeping. As an afterthought, amusement whetting his grin into a sharper smile, he hummed, “Though, if you’d be willing to part with your liver, that’d be superb! It may do nicely in one of my new recipes!”

The admission seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect—rather than dissuading Angel, it seemed to incite his comments further. “Ooh, if that’s how ya like it, I think I can oblige,” he said, deepthroating the popsie once again. Saliva bridged from his lips to the tip of the popsicle as he slowly pulled it away from his mouth. “You can take whatever ya want, babe.” The wink that followed the pet name made Alastor wish the floor would swallow him.

“Uh, on second thought,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “your liver has probably been tainted by alcoholism. Not very tasteful for a good dish, now is it?”

Angel only grinned wider. “A shame,” he cooed, still gazing at the radio demon from beneath his lashes, eyes half-lidded. “I sure do taste good, too. ‘S yer loss.”

Alastor said nothing in response, simply fleeing from the room with his packet of jerky and bundle of papers beneath the crook of his elbow.

* * *

The next time Alastor saw Angel, the pornstar was draped over the ratty sofa, feet digging into the cushions, legs spread out languidly as if almost in invitation. Both sets of his arms were crossed beneath his head, cushioning his neck like a pillow.

“My dear fellow!” Alastor greeted, arms folded behind his back. He stood several feet away so Angel would have to cross quite a distance in order to touch him. “Did you hear the news? Charlie and I have been invited back to the picture show for an interview about the hotel!”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t that a dumpster fire the first time?” A genuine question not addled with sexual content? Perhaps Alastor could relax for the day.

“Oh, but of course,” said Alastor excitedly, staticky laughter scraping his throat on its way out. “However, now that I’m a...benefactor of the hotel, they were almost too happy to oblige.” Alastor’s grin sharpened as he continued, “My broadcasts work wonders on a tough crowd! They were only too willing to listen after my performance!”

Angel made a sound low in his throat, practically purring. “Hmm, sadistic,” he murmured, eyelashes fluttering. Eyes half-lidded, pupils dilated with interest, he said, “Y’know, I’m a masochist myself.” The spider shifted on the sofa, chest puffed outwards as if displaying a trophy. “You could use me as much as you want—you could step on me and I’d thank you, _Deer Daddy_.”

Time seemed to cease for a moment. Crackling static engulfed Alastor—caused his hair to bristle and stand erect, teasing apart at the ends. His voice caught in his throat, garbled heavily by a layer of static interference. The discordant noise expelled from his mouth for several uncomfortable moments, Angel’s grin only widening at the fact that he had somehow stifled the radio demon’s speech: Alastor felt as if he had somehow landed on a radio station which he couldn’t comprehend. He frantically tried to seek a station with which he was familiar, dialing up and down before the static lessened after finding a familiar tune.

So much for relaxing. False sense of security.

After finally regaining control of his faculties, he glared at Angel, brandishing his signature smile like a dagger—he found the glare combined with razor sharp teeth had a tendency to intimidate. “I’d rather you not call me that,” he said politely, grin almost morphing into a grimace.

“Aww,” Angel drawled with feigned remorse: his voice was entirely unapologetic. “So sorry for making ya uncomfortable, toots.” He rolled over again in such a way that his chest was somehow even more visible and open. Alastor glanced down briefly at the display, repressing a physical shudder. Before he could kindly ask Angel to cover up, the spider demon said, “Sorry, it looked like you saw something ya liked. Maybe I was mistaken.”

“It seems you were,” Alastor said quickly, crossing his arms behind his back, spine going ramrod straight. “But no matter! I’m needed elsewhere at the moment!” His microphone materialized from seemingly nowhere. “Have a good…” Eyes shifting over and across Angel’s prone form, he floundered for a moment before continuing, “A good rest! I’ve got an interview for which to prepare!”

As quickly as he could, before Angel even managed to get any words out, he bounded out of the room to ready himself for his interview with Tom Trench and Katie Killjoy, endeavoring to put Angel Dust’s odd behavior out of mind—to which he failed miserably.

Why did it seem like Angel became more persistent the greater the rejection? Alastor had already turned the initial offer of fallatio down flat, and all of the propositions thereafter. He had thought his discomfort and lack of interest was readily apparent, even to an oblivious fool—which Angel was certainly not. The spider was actually quite clever and keen if a situation garnered it, seeing as he had a job dealing with clients on a constant basis. Pleasure was his business, which made him surprisingly good at placating people despite that he also infuriated them to no end. It was a duality about him, Alastor supposed. Entirely entertaining and, surprisingly, somewhat charming.

Alastor shook himself. What was he doing, thinking Angel was charming? He was a whore, plain and simple, of which he’d killed plenty of the like during his lifetime. Always willing to do whatever you wanted as long as they got either paid or pleasured. He’d roped many of them in that way; got them alone, made requests of locations and stipulations that they really failed to question because it was all done for cash that they desperately needed.

Besides, Angel couldn’t offer Alastor anything he wanted or didn’t already have. The only things Angel seemed to contribute were salacious comments and ostentatious flirting verging on sexual harassment. He was good at giving blowjobs, if that was to be considered a talent. He was also stellar when it came to shirking his duties, doing the opposite of what you told him to, sneaking out, and causing a ruckus as a general principle.

Though it wasn’t classy, it was hilarious. But no matter.

Despite how he tried to eradicate the spider from his thoughts like the pest he was, he couldn’t seem to dissuade the image of cotton candy fur and grinning gold teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel and Alastor actually interact beyond Angel’s erotic attempts at courting the radio demon.

“Got a minute, handsome?”

Alastor’s ears perked up at the familiar voice and he swiveled to greet a flash of an equally as familiar golden tooth. What struck him immediately after was the ladle brandished in one gloved claw and the overwhelming aroma of garlic combined with tomatoes and meat.

“Sure thing,” he said, tone of voice contradicting the conviction the phrase should inherently possess: he just couldn’t help that anything involved with Angel had a knack for unearthing some deep, warring hesitation within him. “How can I be of assistance, old sport?”

Angel’s lips pulled into some semblance of a sneer. “Eh, please don’t pull that moniker ever again—I much prefer _darling_ ,” he said with a wink and a subtle brushing of hair from his face.

Was that because he genuinely preferred the ring or so he could cause Alastor more discomfort? Based on Angel’s look alone, he wasn’t certain. “Duly noted,” he said with his ever present smile, though it was one of those hard-to-read expressions he often wielded. “So, what happens to be the issue, my arachnid acquaintance?”

Was that a furrow in the spider’s brow or was he imagining things? His expression had somehow morphed from one of impressive self-confidence to something reminiscent of a pouting child in the span of only a few seconds. “Well, if ya must know, Charlie said cooking might help...y’know.” He trailed off, pout blurring into more of a lost expression. “Well, she said it could help me feel better, or remember my past, or something,” he said with a quick, dismissive wave—though the tone of his voice had a heavy quality like the words meant something important, and perhaps like he was trying to brush that fact off.

“I wasn’t aware you liked to cook as well,” said Alastor with an appreciative hum.

Sans for the sexual and flirtatious comments Angel often hurled at him, Alastor actually communicated with the spider very little. Since their altercations only ever made him uncomfortable, he saw little reason to seek the other demon out—and perhaps he didn’t know much about the hotel’s very first patron because of it, but Angel had never expressed a willingness to know Alastor on a deeper level. He made his aesthetic appreciation very apparent, sure, but never anything more—so what point was there to express interest in the spider if it wasn’t reciprocal?

Angel flushed, as is the wont of someone who’s been called out. “Yeah, not many people do, toots, so consider yerself lucky.” His lower set of hands continued stirring the large vat on the stove that had some form of tomato sauce while he began stirring a second pot with his upper arms: this one looked to have some kind of alfredo sauce. “My family was Italian, so ya can imagine how important food was to us. Course, my pa and brother never liked _me_ cooking.” The ladle slowed in its movement as Angel quieted in remembrance. “Said it was a girly thing, something my sister and ma should be doin’ while the men ‘got shit done’,” he scoffed. “Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.”

Alastor hummed to indicate that he was listening, peering down into the swirling mixture of tomatoes and what looked to be ground beef. “Where I come from, cooking is a big part of the culture. Everyone—positively _everyone_ —cooks.” He took a large inhale, reveling in the scent. “It’s difficult to fathom the idea that cooking was frowned upon in your household.”

“Yeah,” Angel said softly, “my pa was also just kind of an ass ta begin with, and ya know, it was the late 30s. Couldn’t have a _faggot_ son.” He was quiet for a few moments, mismatched eyes inspecting the sauce as if looking for something more than it could provide: _longing_. Several seconds passed, Alastor curiously watching as Angel sighed in a gentle way, as if the action was familiar. “Anyway, I figured since ya made that _damn_ good jambalaya, you could tell me if _this_ ,” he raised the ladle from each pot, “is any good.”

“I’ll gladly be your guinea pig,” Alastor laughed, the sound breathy and buzzing with gentle static.

As hard as it was to admit to himself, he was interested in this newer, more muted side to Angel. It didn’t seem like he was trying to impress anyone, to flaunt or front or fake. He wasn’t being a smartass for the sake of it or acting like he was more confident than he actually was: rather, he was displaying a vulnerability uncharacteristic of what Alastor had always witnessed from him.

A smile spread across Angel’s face, much different than his usual sly smirk. It looked truly grateful and preening, a little bit pleased, and entirely excited. “Thanks, Al, I owe ya one.”

How curious: he hadn’t called him Strawberry Pimp, or Deer Daddy, or toots, or babe. Just Al. It was...strangely endearing to find his own name in Angel’s mouth. Was he actually feeling _fond_ of the spider? Why, he very rarely felt fond of anyone, much less a creature like Angel.

“Now,” Angel interrupted his musings, “I got homemade pasta, red sauce with ground beef and sliced sausage, and alfredo sauce with diced chicken.” His chest puffed, not in the usual provocative way, but with pride. “I know, I know, I mighta went overboard, but I was gonna feed the hotel and I know how much ya like to eat by yerself—“ A pause followed by a clearing of the throat. “Anyway, I think it’s all ready so I’m just gonna plate it and get yer opinion.”

Noise murmured from Alastor’s throat. His red eyes trained on Angel’s hands as they expertly maneuvered, first plating the apparently homemade pasta, then laying a dollop of each type of sauce on top. A gap was left between the different sauces to prevent sullying the flavors. Then a fork was plunged into the center of the mound of pasta on the plate, which was then promptly held out for Alastor to take.

It was at that moment that he looked at Angel’s face and found he looked nervous. He was almost imperceptibly biting his lower lip, worrying it between his fangs. His eyes were blown wide, but lacked focus. Even his body seemed to scream his unease: his two hands were idly wringing a drying cloth while the others were crossed over his chest. It was a new look for Angel—at least, it was new to Alastor. The usual bravado was gone, relieved and hanging up like an old coat while the uneasy and apprehensive Angel came to the forefront.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, surprising himself when he realized the gratitude was genuine. He thought he liked this different Angel, and it was evident in the way he spoke to him now: gentler, more authentic. “It looks marvelous. The aroma is absolutely enticing.”

Some of the tension drained from the spider’s form. “Just hurry up and eat it, I ain’t got all day,” he said, though it lacked real bite. If anything it seemed like an attempt to cover his growing nervousness at the prospect of someone’s scrutiny.

Alastor twirled a large helping of pasta and stabbed a piece of sausage coated with red sauce, popping it into his mouth—and the flavors were explosive; the meat was perfectly tender and seasoned nicely; the red sauce wasn’t too salty nor too bland, and was also the perfect temperature; the pasta wasn’t rubbery or sticking to itself. It was honestly the most pleasing bite of spaghetti Alastor had ever had the pleasure of eating, and he hummed loudly so his approval could be heard. He took another bite of the red sauce and noodles before moving on to the alfredo.

This was equally as pleasing. He could detect the sour tang of the cream cheese, the notes of parmesan, and the heaviness of the cream. It was a deep, rich tasting sauce, thick and satisfying. The chicken wasn’t dry, rather it was well seasoned and moist while not being undercooked. Why, he didn’t think he could even make pasta quite so delectable. Jambalaya and gumbo were his specialities but Italian...Angel had him beat.

“You’re making me nervous.” Angel’s voice cut through his contemplative haze. Worry was evident in the twist of his words. “Is the meat not cooked right? Or is the sauce too thin? Y’know I _knew_ something didn’t seem right, fuck—“

“Angel, it’s perfect.”

Silence— _absolute_ silence. Angel was just full of surprises today.

“Uh, what?”

Alastor’s smile softened with something that seemed a lot like pity; Angel’s voice just sounded so impossibly _confused_ , and how could Alastor not feel some twinge of sympathy for his plight. “The meat is perfectly cooked and seasoned, the pasta is the perfect texture. The sauce is also the perfect consistency and I can detect all the subtle nuances of its ingredients.” He cocked his head, red scleras and irises piercing through the spider’s expression. “Need I go on?”

Angel seemed dumbfounded. “Oh,” was all he said, but after a moment the pseudo-confidence returned full force. “Well of course I expected ya to say that.” Alastor cocked a suspicious brow. “After all,” Angel laughed, “what have I been telling ya this whole time, babe: I’m wifey material!”

He couldn’t help the surprised laugh that tore itself from his throat. The joke was still somewhat more lewd than was generally his taste in humor, but it wasn’t inherently sexual enough to discomfit him. For some reason Angel seemed more endearing today than he did a nuisance, and that bothered Alastor deeply.

“Do you require anything else of me, my dear?” said Alastor, brushing off his temporary flare of fondness and instead looking at the demon impassively.

Angel smiled, almost to himself. It was almost painfully soft and seemed somewhat relieved. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about my offer…”

Alastor shuddered: _there_ was the Angel he knew.

“I’ll never change my answer, darling,” he said matter-of-factly.

“A demon can dream,” Angel said with a shrug and a laugh.

* * *

Charlie was exhausted: that much was obvious based on the persistent droop to her eyelids, the disheveled nature of her suit, and the half-way conscious manner she spoke to anyone who prompted her. After the interview Alastor and Charlie had done for 666 News, even more demons began to flood into the hotel. Perhaps seeing such a malevolent demon backing and supporting such a project made sinners feel a sense of budding _hope_ , made them believe that if someone quite so evil could support the idea of redemption that maybe they could too.

Little did they know that Alastor didn’t believe in the possibility of redemption, but no matter.

The swell of new patrons and attendants was beginning to wear on the young demon, who honestly probably never conceived that her pet project would ever get such recognition. Yet that wasn’t a point of conflict, no; in fact, she was positively enamored of the amount of demons wanting to give this whole “redemption” thing a try. Which was rather the problem. She hadn’t slept properly or gone one day without worrying about someone’s safety. She was worried about demons relapsing, slipping back into bad habits, sneaking out of the hotel—which weren’t unreasonable concerns, but they were very taxing. To ensure the hotel stayed in orderly conduct, she created a curfew to curtail bad behavior, and made Alastor head of the night watch.

Clever girl, using the most feared demon of Hell to her advantage.

She also hosted AA sessions and group therapy meetings on select days of the week in order to coax patrons to talk about their feelings. She wanted them to express their fears and concerns so she could attempt to lessen them. In tandem, she was doing extensive research about how to “kick addiction”, “stay clean”, “avoid relapse”, and “open up.” Since she had been born in Hell, she had no idea of half of the ways to help combat what the sinners coming to her were facing.

Everything resting on her weary shoulders was beginning to show. Today she sat on the living room sofa, which had been repaired since the hotel’s rise in popularity. One arm was curled around her stomach, the other propped up on her knees where they were tucked into her chest. Vaggie wasn’t present due to what Alastor suspected was an altercation between two sinners. She was trying to deescalate the situation while Charlie took a well-needed rest.

Angel was positioned on the other end of the couch. He had his Hellphone held in one hand, scrolling with his thumb, seeming entirely impassive. However, his eyes glanced up at the princess every so often. Each time he did, his brow seemed to soften, mouth twitching into a frown. All the while, Alastor was propped at the bar, gaze sliding over occasionally. His ears were perked up, striving to hear the conversation without appearing like he was eavesdropping.

“Hey, toots, you okay?” said Angel.

That seemed to jolt Charlie from her dazed stupor. The clipboard she was holding slipped from her fingers before she caught it. “I’m alright,” she said, though she stifled a yawn as she did so.

Angel hummed, reserving himself to once again looking at his phone. However, after a stretch of several moments, he glanced back up to see Charlie’s eyes shut once again, her mouth agape. He pocketed his phone with a small smile. Alastor watched as he gently angled Charlie towards him and laid her head against his chest. Carefully, almost tenderly, he stroked her hair, and Charlie sighed at the ministration.

“You’re so soft,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes with a curled fist. “Can I sleep here?” Alastor couldn’t quite tell if she was genuinely asking or joking, but Angel kept her held closely to his chest regardless.

“You should take a nap,” he said, hand never leaving her hair. He gingerly played with an errant curl by her temple and tucked the strand behind her ear. “I’ll wake ya up if anything important happens.”

Charlie was already dozing, curling into Angel’s chest. The whole interaction was so completely tender and void of sexual implication, despite the somewhat suggestive positions. Alastor knew Angel was gay, so had no feelings for Charlie, but he still would have expected something lewd or not so innocent to escape the spider. Yet Charlie looked almost like a young child, seeking comfort, even snoring gently if his ears weren’t deceiving him. And all the while Angel just continued petting her hair, smiling to himself, not shifting or jostling as to let her rest peacefully.

“What’s with the smile?” Husk said from behind him. Alastor turned to find the feline drying shot glasses, giving him an almost suspicious look.

“Whatever do you mean, my good friend?” Alastor said past the lip of his glass. “I’m never fully dressed without it. I’m sure you’re intelligent enough to know as much.”

Husk grumbled something scathing, eyebrows furrowing. “I ain’t a dumbass,” he defended, placing a clean shot glass in the dish rack with a little too much force. “It’s just different than I’ve ever seen it. Ya look less like a creep. It’s,” he paused, words tapering off while Alastor raised a curious brow. “I don’t know, for a minute you looked almost normal— _almost_.”

Alastor wasn’t sure if he should be offended by the admission. To hear that he didn’t look positively terrifying at the moment made something low and gnarly build in his gut, something like shame and anger at the accusation that he was anything but intimidating. But there was also an irrevocably soft feeling in his chest at the moment that tempered the flare of offense. He looked upon the scene on the sofa—Charlie hugging around Angel’s middle and the spider smiling softly down at her—and he couldn’t help but feel a swell of _something else_. Something softer, foreign, and unbefitting of an overlord: something he hadn’t felt often in life, and had felt even less in the afterlife.

“Don’t mind it, old sport,” he said to Husk, taking a small sip of his scotch but never taking his eyes off Angel and Charlie. “Maybe I’m just having an off day.”

* * *

What a peculiar sight.

Alastor was fairly certain he just saw a _pig_ run out of one of the bedrooms, and said creature was charging directly at him. He caught it swiftly in his claws, to which the animal squealed in what was equally likely to be fear or delight. With an elegant claw, he traced down the creature’s back, scratching gently. The animal snorted happily, leg kicking in a manner reminiscent of a dog. It made Alastor lessen his motions, but he still idly continued anyway.

“Fat Nuggets!” That was Angel’s voice, coming from the same direction of the room the pig had fled from. The spider came bounding from the doorway, eyes widening in relief and annoyance in equal measure upon seeing the pig in Alastor’s arms. “There you are, Nugs! There’s no need to bother Alastor.” He came closer, arms crossed over his chest like a disapproving parent. “All because you don’t like bath time.”

A low chuckle droned from Alastor’s throat, wrapped in static interference. “Maybe you should take your own advice, dear,” he said at the mention of ‘bothering Alastor’, scratching beneath the pig’s collar. He had only noticed it now; it was hot pink with a metal tag that had ‘Fat Nuggets’ engraved in it.

Angel looked momentarily confused before he caught on to the implications. “I never mean ta bother ya, honest.” He swept a hand through his hair, looking slightly nervous. It was equally pitiful as it was amusing. “Well, at least _this_ time,” he said after some consideration. “I didn’t think he’d run off like that. I know he doesn’t like bath time, but for Satan’s sake, I turned around and he just disappeared. I’m lucky ya found him, else I prob’ly woulda looked for ages.” He scuffed his boot against the floor, his second set of arms folded behind his back in an almost bashful manner. What a _sight_ , seeing Hell’s number one pornstar looking _embarrassed_. “So...thanks.”

“Now I feel slightly remiss to say I was considering eating him,” Alastor said, reveling in the way Angel’s face slackened in shock and mortification. “But knowing you have,” he waved his hand in a show of his lack of understanding, “some sort of _connection_ with the creature, I suppose I’m glad you came when you did.” He smiled deviously, amused by the nervous twitch of Angel’s brow and the tooth edging it’s way out of his mouth to pierce his lower lip.

“You weren’t really,” Angel laughed, though what was meant to be a statement came out as more of a question. He made grabby gestures with his hands to which Alastor grinned wider in response, holding the pig out to its rightful owner. “He’s too cute to want to hurt, isn’t that right, Nugs?”

Alastor didn’t mention that he would have eaten the pig—Fat Nuggets, he internally corrected—had the opportunity presented itself. But that was before knowing the creature belonged to anyone. His momma had gotten cross with him the last time he did something to someone else’s pet, so he knew better than to trifle with such things. He supposed he had some standards after all.

“He does have a certain charm,” Alastor agreed begrudgingly, folding his arms behind his back.

“Of course he does,” Angel said, smirking in that characteristic way of his. “He takes after his father.”

“Is not liking bath time also a trait he inherited?” said Alastor, a dangerous edge to his ever-present grin. He enjoyed the exaggerated offense in Angel’s expression, how his hand came up to his chest. The spider seemed to sputter, but it was all a well-measured act of dramatism.

“I’ll have you know I showered just last night,” he said, mock-offense plaguing his voice. In actuality, he only seemed amused by Alastor’s gibe, not truly disgruntled. “I use strawberry shampoo so every time I bathe I can think about my _Strawberry Pimp._ ”

Alastor stilled. Static buzzed low in his chest, seeming to suffocate him before he cleared his throat. He had actually found himself _enjoying_ their banter before Angel had to add something _suggestive_ into the discussion. Though, he didn’t understand why he was still surprised and flustered by the constant flirting and salaciousness. It was fairly inevitable for something sex-related to emerge almost any occasion in which Angel was involved.

“Must you always go... _there_ ,” said Alastor, smile feeling more forced. “I was rather enjoying our conversation until your...untoward comment.”

Angel was quiet for several moments, a single gloved claw coming to rest against his chin. The pair of arms which had been behind his back for the majority of the conversation now clasped in front of his waist. “Am I really that repulsive?” he said seriously, eyes going half-lidded and downcast. “I’ve never had someone be so blatantly disgusted by me.”

He hadn’t been expecting quite so heavy a question. “I find everyone repulsive,” Alastor assured honestly. “At least, in a sexual manner. I can usually ignore my dislike of such activities when others have a certain discretion, but Angel…” Humming, he continued, “Your advances are brazen and unabashed. You have absolutely no shame, no sense of personal space, and no idea how uncomfortable your _indiscretion_ makes me. You have never once lessened your flirting even when I indicated I was discomfited by it.”

The longer Alastor spoke, the smaller Angel appeared. He seemed to retract his arms impossibly close to himself, as if he didn’t quite know how to fit into his limbs. Fat Nuggets was still nestled in his upper set of arms, and he nuzzled his face towards the pig’s own. “Oh,” he breathed, looking meeker than Alastor had ever seen him. He would have never, ever considered that Angel _could_ look ashamed, but here they were. “I thought...” He rubbed at the side of his face. “Never mind. Look, I’m really sorry, alright? I’m just gonna…I’m just gonna go. I know that’s probably what you want me to do right now. I gotta bathe Nugs anyway.”

Alastor couldn’t help but feel shocked and simultaneously warmed by the apology. However, he didn’t say anything as Angel disappeared back into his room with Fat Nuggets still tightly cradled in his arms. The door shut with a reverberating slam, and Alastor was left in a more confused and fumbling position than he had been for quite a long time.

Angel hadn’t given him the chance to continue. _I don’t dislike you, even considering your advances. I prefer when you’re being yourself. I appreciate when you aren’t trying too hard to be something you’re not._ _I’m amused by you. You aren’t scared of me like everyone else: you treat me like any other demon, and maybe I like that. Even when some things you say set my teeth on edge, I still have never felt the urge to ignore your presence entirely. I think I like that you make me flustered._

Ah, maybe it was better he left everything unsaid anyway. He was just barely admitting any of this to himself: he didn’t think he was ready to admit anything to Angel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel has been avoiding Alastor—and the deer isn’t sure why that leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Angel had been avoiding Alastor for a few days now. He hadn’t thought that he would really care, but for some reason he kept seeking the spider out. He would look for him around the time of the hotel’s curfew to make sure he made it back alright, and even on occasion casted shadows across the hotel to try to locate the other demon.

He told himself it was only because Angel was the most entertaining patron of the hotel: _that’s_ why his absence left a strange taste in Alastor’s mouth. After all, he had began this endeavor for entertainment purposes, and Angel had always provided, though in a somewhat crass manner. Since the beginning of Angel’s avoidance, he hadn’t managed to find an equally as humorous and easily accessible source of amusement. _That_ was the reason for his constant, prickling need to make sure the spider was still in good enough condition: it _had_ to be the reason.

Angel seemed _very_ keen on keeping his distance. If Alastor locked eyes with him from across the room, the spider would only glance away and quickly leave without suitable explanation. Or if Angel came through the hotel doors just moments before curfew and found Alastor on night watch, he would gently apologize for his tardiness and excuse himself to his bedroom. Even around meal times, which were communal affairs at set times—breakfast at 8 am, lunch at 1 pm, dinner at 6 pm—he would sit in the chair furthest away from wherever Alastor sat.

Oh, how the tables had turned. Hadn’t Alastor initially hoped for Angel to keep his distance? Hadn’t Angel been a nuisance, a thorn in his side, and a point of discomfort in his day-to-day activities? So why did everything feel distorted now? Why did he seek out the other so much when, before, he had essentially asked for space? All he wanted to do was apologize, but Angel kept finding ways to be unavailable, or absent, or avoidant. This whole situation was becoming increasingly odd—and Alastor was deeply bothered by the fact that his own intentions were a mystery.

* * *

“Angel?” Alastor said, watching as the spider tried to slip out the front door unnoticed.

The situation held a vague sense of deja vu. Angel was wearing an outfit different from his usual: a long-sleeve mauve crop top with a pair of black leggings, along with shorter, more sensible heels. It called to mind the last time Alastor had asked where Angel was heading off to, only for Angel to tell him that he was seeing a client and would think about Alastor while doing so. He silently shuttered with remembrance.

Upon hearing Alastor’s voice, Angel turned around, top set of arms winding around his chest. He fiddled with his shirt, pulling the fabric so it rested higher on his clavicles. “Smiles,” he greeted, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “I’m just going to the studio. Val texted me with a john’s info and I gotta meet up wit’ him ASAP. I already told Charlie and Vaggie—probably won’t be back till right before curfew.” He readjusted his shirt again after the fabric had started slipping whilst he spoke. “I think that’s everything. Is it alright if I go now?”

No lewd jokes, beating around the bush, or flirty nonsense. His explanation was straightforward and curt—almost rehearsed.

“Must you leave so soon?” Alastor said, crossing his arms behind his back and walking towards where Angel stood by the open door. The spider’s fur prickled in response, visibly going erect like the raised hackles of a feral dog. Alastor wasn’t certain if it was due to the static he exuded or if Angel was actually _afraid._ “I was rather hoping I could speak to you.”

Angel stilled, going silent for a short moment. “Really, I need to go. I’m already late and I don’t want Val to—“ Whatever he meant to say left him in one large exhale. He rubbed underneath his eyes as if they were bothering him. “I just gotta go, alright?”

“It’ll only take a moment of your time,” said Alastor, grin never fading; however, he could feel his composure slipping. “I just wanted to apologize for my rude behavior—“

“You don’t gotta apologize for nothing,” Angel interjected, opening the door wider. “Ain’t your fault, it’s mine.” The way he looked down at his feet then glanced fleetingly at Alastor was enough to make the deer feel almost guilty. “Anyways, I really gotta go. Catch ya later, Smiles.”

Soon enough, after flashing a forced smile, the hotel doors opened and closed with a sharp click. Alastor was left standing in the foyer, staring blankly at the doorknob, trying to explain to himself what had just happened.

Angel’s words and actions ran through his head on a repeated loop like film tape, searing into his eyelids, echoing in his ears. He couldn’t rid himself of Angel’s tangible discomfort, the way he seemed to recoil as Alastor broached his personal space; the way his fur stood on end, worrying his outfit with restless claws. How he looked like a cornered animal in the midst of a very dangerous predator. Like he had no escape, like he wanted nothing more than to somehow leave the room and never look back.

Angel hadn’t even called him Al.

Angel had seemed _scared_ of him—and for once Alastor didn’t _like_ that someone feared him so much.

* * *

What better way to apologize to someone than with some good old Louisianan cooking?

Alastor had taken control of the kitchen, sealing the doors with his eldritch magic and putting a protective barrier around the area. He materialized all the ingredients he needed for one of his mother’s favorite recipes: French Quarter beignets. They were a _showstopper_ : he had baked them on many occasions when he needed a way out of trouble, or an apology which he couldn’t force himself to admit verbally.

Humming, he poured water into a large mixing bowl, then added granulated sugar and active dry yeast. He mixed it slowly until everything combined, pushing it to the side to let it set for ten minutes.

Eggs, salt, and evaporated milk were then added together in a separate bowl until well mixed. Alastor whisked quickly with a practiced finesse; after all, this had been one of his mother’s favorite recipes. Almost every Sunday, she and Alastor would prepare homemade beignets. When he was a young boy, they would put the donuts in a picnic basket, as well as bring a pitcher of lemonade, and settle themselves under the large tree besides the bayou surrounding their yard. It was a private affair, something they did only on Sunday evenings when Alastor’s father had to work late. If he knew of the fruit-hued skies they watched and the fried choux pastry they ate, he’d certainly call it dilly-dallying.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he poured the egg mixture into the yeast mixture, then combined them. Bread flour came next, once again getting stirred into the preexisting ingredients. The white granules eventually thinned, blending into a smooth, consistent colored blur. The color of the semi-liquid reminded him of a certain spider, to which he glanced at the powdered sugar only a few inches away: he’d be using it to dust the finished beignets. However, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of Angel Dust, both the drug and the demon who had appropriated the name.

He plopped some shortening into the bowl, then added the remainder of flour necessary. The mixture began to thicken around the spoon, and eventually Alastor simply dipped his claws into the bowl to mix with his hands. It was beginning to actually resemble choux pastry as he continued mixing; it hardened around his claws, becoming more firm but still flexible. He took it from the bowl and began gently kneading it on the counter after flouring the surface, working it in his hands. Folding, pushing, stretching—all in a rhythmic tempo that matched the tapping of his foot.

Once satisfied with the consistency of the dough, he rolled it into a neat sphere, placing it in a clean bowl and covering it with plastic wrap. The dough would have to rise before he could do anything else.

After wrapping the bowl, he put it in the fridge to set. Humming, he glanced at the clock, which showed the blaring numbers 11:32 am. It would be quite some time before Angel returned to the hotel, which was optimal considering he still needed time for the yeast to ferment and to later fry the beignets. However, the pastry would be done much earlier than Angel’s predicted arrival. That wouldn’t be a problem, considering he could keep the dough heated indefinitely with his powers. Keeping them fresh and warm might drain him slightly, seeing as he would have to concentrate on supplying a steady stream of energy, but it was worth it if his apology was well-received.

What to do while he was waiting on the dough? He briefly contemplated brewing Angel’s coffee on the stovetop, but instead thought to wait until later when the dough was almost finished—it would equate to less time he had to keep the beverage hot, in the long run. But waiting for the dough would take some time, and passing that time would be difficult, especially considering he felt strangely antsy about giving Angel his...apology gift, should he call it that. The prospect made his stomach roil, made static murmur through his veins and vibrate through his body. It was...strange.

Perhaps he should pay Charlie or Husk a visit? Angel had certainly communicated with them more than Alastor in the past few days. It was possible he could learn something about where Angel had been disappearing to, maybe even hear from them whether the spider had said anything about their awkward conversation only days ago.

Shrugging, he straightened his bow tie and snapped his fingers to alleviate the sealed runes; it was worth a shot. If nothing else, it could serve as prime entertainment until his cooking could commence.

* * *

As soon as Alastor took a seat at the bar, Husk already looked suspicious.

“Ain’t it a bit early for someone like _you_ to be drinkin’?” Husk said while drying a shot glass. His brows were pulled down in a disgruntled, wary mien.

“Actually, my feline friend,” he said, materializing a glass of brandy and running his finger along the rim, “I came seeking some insight about a certain arachnid whom we’ve both befriended. I know he’s come to be...close to you.” For some reason the knowledge that Angel spent an inordinate amount of time with Husk unsettled him. It wasn’t like Angel actually ventured to the bar for Husk’s company, right? He probably just wanted booze so often that Husk tended to be the one he was around the most.

Now the cat somehow seemed even more wary. “‘Befriended’?” The motions of his hand and drying towel ceased. “What, did you and Angel become all buddy-buddy or somethin’ without me knowing?”

Alastor hummed, claws clicking against the bar top. “I’d simply like to know if you’ve spoken to Angel recently,” he said, nursing his drink.

“He ain’t told me nothin’,” Husk said with an almost flippant shrug, inflection and expression impressively impassive. Alastor had come to learn that Husk had quite the poker face: anyone else would believe what the cat had just said, but Alastor knew better. Husk’s tail and wings tended to be a dead giveaway whenever he was lying; his tail flicked almost imperceptibly from side-to-side and his wings flexed gently, feathers almost vibrating. “Well, nothin’ except the usual ‘tell me I’m pretty’ and ‘let me fuck you’.”

Alastor bristled for a reason unbeknownst to himself. He figured it had only to do with his dislike for crass, sexual topics of discussion. “I think you’re lying,” Alastor said outright, pupils pinhole thin. “I _know_ you’re lying. I don’t see how you think dishonesty will get you anywhere desirable.”

Husk at least had the decency to look less hostile, but became no less defensive. “I ain’t gonna air Angel’s business. You want answers, you talk to him.”

Impatience suddenly flared in his chest like wildfire, annoyance mounting like flames licking up a building. “What _are_ you hiding?” he accused, though his voice held the same cheery inflection it always did. His smile was menacing, razor sharp teeth bared. Although the cat seemed impressed, he wasn’t intimidated.

“Shit Angel don’t want you hearing about,” Husk said simply, resuming his drying of the shot glasses. After another solid minute of Alastor’s glare, he finally grumbled and sighed, glass touching down against the counter with a loud clank. “Look, after a long day sometimes he vents ta me while I’m closing up. Sometimes it’s stupid shit, sometimes not. He ain’t been here much the past few days. That’s all I’m gonna tell ya.”

The annoyance abated slightly, but still lingered. “Very well,” said Alastor, straightening his suit. He rose from his stool, folding his arms behind his back. Prim and proper—that’s what mother always said to be. “I’ll simply seek Charlie out. Perhaps she’ll be more forthcoming with information.”

He materialized his microphone, twirling it as he walked away, and fervently ignored Husk’s aggravated sigh.

* * *

“Charlie, dear?” said Alastor with a soft knock on her office door. Although it was open, it still seemed courteous of him to give an indication that he planned on entering. “May I ask you a question?”

Charlie was quick to reassure him with an, “Of course, Al!” She looked up from a stack of papers and manila folders, tucking them to the side when Alastor made his way through the door. “I need a break anyway: I’ve been going through all the residents’ forms to see if there are any ways I can aid them further. Group therapy and AA are actually going very well!” She gave a bright smile. “I know the hotel is still in its infancy, but I’m confident it can really make a difference. Anyway, sorry for rambling—your question?”

Despite himself, Alastor’s smile melted into something softer and more organic at her innocent eagerness. He cleared his throat to help dislodge the affection. “Have you spoken to Angel recently?” he finally said, smile once again sharp and rigid.

“I saw him earlier this morning,” she said, organizing a different pile of papers in the drawer of her desk. “He seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, skipped breakfast.” She tapped idly at her chin with a pen, humming to herself. After a moment she brought the writing utensil back down, beginning to plunge down the pen cap. “I think he said he was going to the studio,” she said a little softer, jovial expression sobering into something more melancholic. “I really don’t like him hanging around there so much. I’m afraid the influence will knock him off track, but I’m more afraid of him getting hurt.” The clicking of her pen became more frequent and compulsive. “I hear him on the phone sometimes,” she said, wincing. “It’s never anything good.”

Alastor hummed thoughtfully—when he had asked Angel, he’d received the same response that the spider was going to the studio for a job. Husk had also confirmed that Angel hadn’t been present recently. That either meant Angel was telling the truth or perpetuating the same lie to everyone. “I thought he’d stopped working for Valentino in the last few weeks?” Alastor questioned, hoping his question came off as curious and impartial rather than invasive: the last thing he needed was for Charlie to question his prying, or to catch wind of his budding concern for the spider. It wouldn’t do well for his heinous reputation at all.

“I thought so too,” she said with a frown, chewing on the pen cap now. “He only started working at the studio again a few days ago. He seemed a little off and I asked if he was alright.” Her brow furrowed with that familiar look of hers—the one she often donned when she felt guilty about a perceived shortcoming in her ability to help others. “He said he was and I didn’t push because I didn’t think it was my place to.”

Static buzzed around Alastor’s aura, starting in his chest and seeming to scratch his throat as it emanated outwards. “That was a few days ago, you said?”

Charlie’s face pinched in concentration. “Yeah,” she concluded, “it was...five days ago, I think.”

The exact number of days since Angel and Alastor’s awkward conversation: so it seemed Angel _had been_ actively avoiding Alastor more than previously suspected. Why did something seem to quiver in his stomach at the idea that he was being avoided like the plague? His fingers were humming with movement; had they been before? He was an overlord, so why was he fidgeting? He had to reign himself in, get himself under control.

Charlie was none the wiser to Alastor’s inner turmoil: after all, misery is best hidden behind a smile. “Thank you, my dear, for the useful information.” He gave a slight bow in gratitude, suddenly aching for something to do with his hands so they would stop their anxious fidgeting. “Your thoroughness is much appreciated.”

Charlie’s face contorted in an expression he had never seen on her: something equally as benign as she always appeared, but which seemed to hide a mounting caution and...dare Alastor say suspicion? “Not to sound rude, but I was wondering why you’re so concerned for Angel.” She quickly corrected, “It’s great that you’re feeling concerned, I don’t want you to think it’s not—I just didn’t think you two were...friends.”

Were they friends? That seemed like such a strange word for his and the spider’s relationship. Though, he supposed if he spent so much time and dedication to making beignets for Angel when he had never shared that recipe with anyone but his mother, that said something about his _fondness_ for the other demon. Whether that fondness stemmed from Angel’s antics or something more, Alastor wasn’t entirely certain. Yet he supposed he respected Angel and was amused by him enough to consider him more than an acquaintance.

“I didn’t either,” he said honestly, voice startlingly more static than words. “It’s a recent development, you see. Angel has been very quiet as of late and I find his silence to be...uncharacteristic.” His claws danced behind his back, ghosting over his arms in introspective thought. “I thank you once again for your honesty.”

The suspicion seemed to melt from the princess’s expression, something calm and tender taking its place. She looked like she felt akin to Alastor, to some extent. “You’re welcome,” she said, so sincerely that it made even Alastor feel soft. “I hope you can get through to him better than I could. I think he needs someone right now...somebody to lean on.”

“Funny you should say that, as I was just going to ask you if you have a master key.” Alastor hummed, claws clicking behind his back. “I have an...apology gift for him,” he said, rolling the idea around as he spoke, “but he’s been avoiding me lately and certainly won’t take the gift if I offer it to him directly. I was hoping you might let me into his room to place the item on his end table?”’

“I don’t trust that for a second.”

Alastor turned to the suspicious, hostile voice which was far too familiar—and far too often directed at him. Vaggie was standing close to the doorway, papers bundled in her arms. Her single eye was a narrow slit, clinging to Alastor even when he made the most minute movements. She slowly sauntered towards Charlie, who had adopted an expression of equal parts tension and indecision.

“Since when do you even care for Angel?” Vaggie said, brows furrowing.

“Vaggie,” Charlie said gently, but was quickly interrupted by her girlfriend.

“I thought you couldn’t even stand him?” She crossed her arms over her chest but accepted the gentle hand which Charlie placed on her shoulder. She looked as if she wanted to shrug it off to maintain her anger, which was quickly becoming assuaged by Charlie’s muttering. “Why the sudden change of heart?” she continued, not letting her girlfriend’s soft whispers to back off deter her from her course.

If Alastor were being honest, he didn’t exactly know. It had only taken a few interactions with Angel in the beginning to initially be extremely disgruntled by his behavior—but it had taken even less time thereafter for the spider to grow on him. The first time he had actually enjoyed the spider’s company was when he found him cooking and tasted his pasta. He thought perhaps he only felt fond because he had finally found someone else with a passion for cooking—not to mention the fact that Angel looked extremely pitiable and hadn’t violated Alastor with his eyes or flirted with him incessantly. Then it had been when Angel and Charlie had been nestled quietly on the couch, Angel petting her hair. Alastor supposed he felt fond for Angel then because he was, for once, touching someone in a completely platonic way. He was acting caring, concerned—being selfless and taking care not to overstep his boundaries.

And then the last time they had spoken...it still made him feel like he was being force fed ash, like his insides were becoming outsides. Seeing Angel so upset—and especially because of something _Alastor_ had done—didn’t sit well in the pit of his stomach.

But he would never say any of this to Vaggie. He instead opted to ignore her question entirely.

“If I was going to do something untoward, why would I be speaking to you right now?” His grin grew more pointed and cruel, lips curling over his teeth. “You witnessed me render a blimp and everyone inside into nothing—wouldn’t you believe I can unlock a simple door on my own?” Cocking his head, he peered into Vaggie, who still had her same immovable scowl. “I’m coming to you as a show of good faith. If I were planning on starting trouble, trust me, I could’ve and _would’ve_ done so already.”

Vaggie seemed more appeased, but like she didn’t want to back down for the simple fact that she would have to admit defeat to someone like Alastor. Charlie’s eyes darted between her girlfriend and her sponsor, conflicted and quick.

“You can even accompany me to Angel’s room, if you like,” said Alastor smugly, eyes squinting. Rumbling static reverberated faintly throughout his body.

Charlie stopped Vaggie before she could respond—it was evident she was going to if allowed. “C’mon, Vaggie,” Charlie whined, pulling at her girlfriend’s sleeve. “You already know that if Alastor wanted to cause permanent damage or kill us, he would have already. He’s right—if he were to do something to Angel, after he asked for the master key, we’d assume he did it.” She rubbed Vaggie’s shoulder, to which her one eye became less narrowed. “Why would he ask us for permission to enter Angel’s room if he planned on doing something...evil?”

Vaggie didn’t respond. She instead glared daggers into Alastor, eyes piercing like javelins. Something accusatory and mistrustful still afflicted her expression—but she always looked that way anyway, so Alastor took it as his win.

Soon enough, a cold metal circle was pressed into his palm, adorned with numerous keys, all numbered for the bearer’s convenience. “Angel is room 107,” Charlie said, not yet letting go of the master key completely. “Please don’t go rooting through his things.” Her voice was practically pleading, fingers gripping into Alastor’s sleeve: he was almost tempted to pry her hand off, but the imploring gaze she drew upon him was enough to stop the thought. “I want him to trust me, _us,_ and if he knows I let you into his room willingly and something goes missing or gets ruined...” She cringed, expelling a gentle breath. “I’m only doing this because you said it’s for a gift. I’m just not entirely sure if I can trust you yet; not to be ungrateful—you’ve been good to the hotel so far. I hope you understand.”

The looming yet unspoken words _don't betray my trust_ seemed to linger in the air. Lucky for Charlie that Alastor’s main focus, for once, actually wasn’t to cause mischief. “No offense taken,” he said with a chipper flair, waving his hand dismissively. “If I were in your position I wouldn’t trust me either.” His smile shifted into something equally as charming as it was dangerous. “But I simply _must_ be going now, darling. Thank you for all your help.”

Charlie nodded as Alastor bounded from the room, grasping tightly onto the master key and looking contemplatively down at the key for room 107.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel responds to Alastor’s apology gift. Things turn out better than expected, after some hashing out.

Alastor felt strangely absentminded as he cut the beignet dough into one-inch squares. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Charlie and Husk has said about Angel’s behavior: how he had been very absent and recently begun working for Valentino after a reprieve of decent standing. Whether that was the truth or a facade to mask something else, Alastor was uncertain. Regardless, it didn’t sit well with him that the spider was being so avoidant and quiet. He was the type who often aired even the most intimate details of his business, at least when it concerned his particular...trade. It didn’t seem like there was a private or meek bone in his body, until Alastor had said what he did and the spider had clammed up.

The sizzling of the pan as the oil heated brought him back to reality. He threw the diced choux dough in, reveling in the splash of oil which speckled onto his claws and the satisfying crackle produced as the dough made contact.

The coffee percolator was also making its characteristic bubbling noise as the water rose from the bottom chamber to the top. Soon the water would flow to the top chamber and then down through the coffee grinds, starting a cycle of water pushing upward and moving downward.

What was he doing? Why did he even care if Angel forgave him or not? What he had said had only been truthful: since when was he apologetic about the truth? He had told Charlie directly to her face that the idea of redemption was laughable, yet he couldn’t tell Angel he made Alastor uncomfortable without feeling some stirring of...guilt in his gut. Never had he prepared beignets for anyone but his mother; he had certainly never entertained sharing the recipe with anyone in _Hell_ , yet here he was.

Soon enough the beignets were done, only needing to be fried until their outsides were golden brown and the insides were still somewhat gooey. Alastor ladled them gently onto a paper towel to soak some of the grease before beginning to sprinkle powdered sugar over them, making sure to give them all an even coating. He then materialized a tray for which to place the pastries, and a mug for the coffee, which was nearing completion. How _did_ Angel take his coffee? Did he even like coffee? Alastor supposed he probably liked sweet things, so a helping of sugar and creamer might do the trick.

He began to pour the coffee into the mug, tendrils of steam swirling in the air. A few dollops of sugar were dunked into the beverage, along with a decent amount of creamer, which was poured in. As he stirred the spoon in a circular motion, the black coffee mellowed out into a warm caramel, indicating that the beverage was most likely diluted enough from its initial bitterness into something Angel Dust could handle more easily.

Foil appeared from thin air, wrapping tightly around the warm plate of pastries. With the dish and mug brandished in either hand, Alastor made his way towards where he presumed room 107 lied.

After several minutes of trekking, the room came before him. It was actually quite removed from the other dwellings, a further walk than Alastor had imagined. It looked just as plain as the other rooms from the outside. With both hands occupied, Alastor called upon his magic to levitate the keys from his pocket and twist them in the door’s lock. The door unlocked with a soft click, creaking slightly as Alastor nudged it open with the front of his shoe.

The room was a surprisingly large suite. A queen size canopy bed with a white and pink striped comforter lay at the room’s center, decorated with a variety of pillows, some fluffy white squares and others pink sequined hearts. A curtain hung from the beam, soft pink lined with lace-inspired patterning. There was a white wooden vanity and cushioned stool in the far back corner, a kit of makeup and utensils still open. A large walk-in closet was nestled in the other corner of the room, adorned with a variety of different outfits, all markedly skimpy and colorful.

Alastor wrinkled his nose. The decor was flashy, like Angel was constantly putting on a show, even in his own room—in _private._ Perhaps he lived his life like he always had an audience: perhaps this was just the way Angel was? Yet, looking back at the timid creature he had become under Alastor’s scrutiny, he didn’t seem so full of himself to adorn his whole room with boisterous decorations. He didn’t actually seem like a materialistic person; was it for comfort then? Did it make him feel special? Did surrounding himself with grandeur and color make him feel like something...more?

He shook himself sharply. There was no point to his internal musings and rapid-fire, rhetorical questions. He shouldn’t even care: he was here only to deposit his gift and leave as quickly as he’d come. This affair wasn’t about affection or friendship—at least that’s what he told himself. It was about compensation for a past transgression.

He positioned the foil-wrapped tray on the end table, alongside the still steaming mug of coffee. After a moment of fiddling, he stepped back to look at the display. He frowned, disliking the way they adorned the furniture. The surface seemed empty, somehow, despite a bouquet of flowers also rested on the cherry night stand.

Maybe he should leave a note, sign it with his name? After all, how would Angel know it was from him?

A paper and pen winked into existence in his hands. He tapped the writing utensil against his chin in idle thought, humming before he laid waste to the paper.

_Dear Angel,_

_Here are the beignets and coffee I once mentioned. It’s a shame I had to share them in such circumstances. I want to simply tell you how apologetic I am that I said to you what I did. There was supposed to be a second part to my statement, one which was infinitely less hostile. If you’d allow it, I’d like to speak with you._

_Alastor_

He folded the note, placing it gently on top of the foiled plate. Decidedly, however, something still seemed to be missing.

On almost a whim, with a twirl of his fingers and a twist of his wrist, an old fashioned radio perched itself beside the bouquet of flowers. It was his trademark: one of the models popular in the 20s with his own flair, scarlet red and paneled.

If Angel accepted his apology and ever deigned to call upon him, he could do so via the radio; Alastor could detect it like an incoming signal, pinpointing the unique frequency of Angel’s bedroom now that he’d imprinted it in his memory. And if Angel didn’t want to speak with him, that was alright too. At least now Alastor had piece of mind that he could check up on Angel from time-to-time. If he just tuned in to the bedroom’s frequency, he would be able to, although not see, at least hear what Angel was up to. He could communicate to the spider also, if it was pressing enough.

Satisfied with his work, his grin curled into something wider—but far less predatory. If anything, a demon looking upon him might even say he looked not so demon-like at all.

* * *

Alastor had been trying to busy himself for hours. After cleaning up his mess in the kitchen, he tried being productive. He concentrated blearily on keeping the beignets and coffee warm with his magic; he tried working on paperwork for the hotel but found himself somehow jilted and disconnected; he even considered the idea of beginning a broadcast, but even that didn’t hold any appeal at the moment. It was very seldom _killing_ and _maiming_ couldn’t even make him feel better. Everything seemed like he was submerged underwater: it felt like the days when he was too engulfed by static to truly feel anything.

“Al?”

And then there was _that_ voice, cutting through the static interference, making the popping and fizzing in the depths of his mind seem somehow dwarfed. He hadn’t been able to focus on _anything_ since leaving the gift for Angel, but now when suddenly faced with the object of his apology, he became acutely aware.

“Angel,” said Alastor with a nod, sounding more unaffected than he truly was—but he knew himself and could tell from the lack of humming noise in his voice that he felt genuinely contented to see the spider. “I presume you read my note.”

Two pairs of arms folded over the front of that plush chest. Angel still seemed intent on covering himself: Alastor wondered if he was doing it for _Alastor’s_ sake, because he didn’t want him to be uncomfortable, or because he thought he wouldn’t like it. Alastor also once had thought he didn’t like Angel’s own provocative way of dressing, but whenever the spider covered himself now, it felt like something was amiss.

“Yeah,” Angel breathed, foot scuffing against the linoleum floor. Alastor waited for him to continue but nothing more left him. If anything, he seemed at a _loss_ for words—an uncommon phenomena indeed.

“May I speak now?” Alastor said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, seeing Angel’s contorted expression of indecision. “You didn’t let me finish before, but I have more to say.”

“Uh, sure, yeah,” the spider stuttered, one hand coming to run nervously through his hair—an action Alastor has begun to notice was a tic when he was involved in anxiety-inducing situations.

Alastor rose from his office desk, tucking paperwork away in one of the many drawers. As he grew closer, Angel retracted further into himself: he looked as if he was trying to appear smaller in the hopes that Alastor would be more forgiving. Well, the deer actually had only good things to say this time. However, that fact didn’t alleviate the guilty pang in his stomach that he was the one causing Angel to feel insecure: why, he would remedy that right now.

“I think the most fair way to begin is to reiterate and better explain my comments from before,” Alastor said, now within arms length of Angel—breaking his own five foot rule. Angel’s eyes became downcast. “I have no sexual interest in _anyone._ ” Mismatched eyes abruptly whipped up to meet his in surprise. “I never had sex during my life, neither during my after life. I know this may come as a shock to you, seeing as sex is how you make your living. But I have never felt the same way about the act that others do.” He hummed low in his throat. “Consider it a shortcoming—think of me as _even more_ of a freak if you like. When I said what I did about being repulsed, it was meant to assure you that I wasn’t rejecting you for being _you_. I reject everyone.”

“And the comments about your flirting…” Angel winced almost imperceptibly. “I won’t lie to you: everything I said was said truthfully. Your flirting makes me uncomfortable—but that’s only because of the way _I_ am. As they would say in a romantic comedy, it’s not you, it’s me.”

Angel gave a wet laugh, rubbing around the bottom of his eyelids. “Fuck,” he said gently, sighing into a curled fist. “ _Fuck_ ,” he said again, with greater feeling, “now I feel like such a fucking asshole.” He shook his head sharply as if maybe it could make the overwhelming emotion abate slightly. “I knew ya always got awkward, but I thought it was...cute, y’know? I thought it was just your way of playing hard to get, or-or...I don’t know really. It was selfish o’ me,” Angel continued gently, scratching behind his neck. “I kept flirting because you’re fucking _gorgeous_ and I wanted to say I could bed the radio demon to people down at the studio. But at the same time, I...liked when you rejected my advances. It made me feel...like I was more to someone than just a whore to do their way with. Like I was actually someone who could do somethin’ better than get fucked by lowlifes and act like I enjoy it.”

Angel gave a brittle, fragile laugh. It looked like broken shards were lodged in his throat. “But tha’ was selfish of me,” the spider said again. “If I had actually thought about why you were so keen on avoiding me, why ya kept rejecting me, I would’ve seen that I was just a nuisance and to—“

“You aren’t a nuisance.” Alastor’s voice sounded softer than he’d ever heard it. “I _do_ enjoy your company, Angel.” The spider froze, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide and terrified like a deer in headlights. “You provide me endless amusement. You aren’t scared of me even though realistically I could end you with a snap of my fingers. Despite the fact that I dislike your crass suggestions, I appreciate that you always have talked to me as if I wasn’t an overlord. It’s...refreshing,” the deer concluded, smile morphing into something more gentle, more reassuring. The spider was still gazing at him as if he’d grown two heads.

“Your cooking is impeccable,” Alastor continued. “You care deeply despite you would rather not let others see it. You’re actually _trying_ to redeem yourself, even though this whole thing might never come to fruition. I just wish you saw yourself as more than just a whore, because you _are_ more than that. You’re clever, humorous, even considerate. I like _that_ version of you: the one not concerned with bedding someone because you think that’s all anyone could want from you. The one focused on his friends and his pet. The one who cooks for the hotel residents, who comforts Charlie when she needs it, who is confident in _himself_ rather than the persona he has created.”

There were tears in Angel’s eyes now, but he didn’t seem to mind them. His mascara had become a touch runny. “And they call ya _evil_?” he chuckled, voice hoarse. “You’re the only demon who’s never been nice to me only to get something in return—who’s never _used_ me. Charlie sees me as her pet project; Valentino sees me as a slut, and so do my clients; Vaggie sees me as an asshole who might endanger the hotel; but _you_ have never had expectations of me.” Something about his gaze was painfully soft. “Ya never talked to me only because ya wanted sex, never treated me like I was broken. Even when I made you uncomfortable, ya still tried to make me feel better ‘bout myself.”

Angel went quiet and Alastor let him. Gingerly, he laid a hand on the spider’s shoulder and rubbed in gentle circles. “No one else even knows I like to cook,” Angel whispered, quiet enough that Alastor had to strain to hear him. “No one’s ever bothered to know _me_. They just want me fer what I can do for ‘em.”

“I want to know you,” Alastor said, surprised that he meant it. The desire rolled in his stomach, sat in his chest, burned in his throat. It was consuming, clear—genuine. “I like the parts of you that no one else has seen. _I_ think,” he began, hand moving from Angel’s shoulder to cup his cheek, “you should learn to be more proud of yourself: not Angel Dust, Valentino’s whore, Charlie’s project, Vaggie’s nuisance. Just _Angel._ ”

The spider laid a hand tentatively over Alastor’s own, making sure the deer saw the contact before it happened. “Maybe yer right,” he whispered, shoulders slumping like some incredible burden had fallen silently from his shoulders. He said nothing else, simply gripping onto Alastor’s claws, breathing in a slow evening tempo.

Alastor cocked his head after the silence had drawn itself out for several moments. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

A laugh, feather-light and gentle, expelled from Angel’s throat. “Yer more than forgiven, Al.”

That _almost_ sappy— _almost_ un-demon-like—smile came back to Alastor’s face. “Marvelous. And how were the beignets? The coffee? I wasn’t certain how you take it.”

Angel was beginning to look more like his usual self, perking up with a growing smile. “Perfect,” he said. “Those beignet things were fuckin’ _amazin’._ Yer ma musta been a fucking _beast_ at cooking for you to be so good at it.”

 _There_ was the spider’s characteristic profanity. Alastor found he didn’t mind it. “Yes, I suppose she _was_ quite a ‘beast’,” he said, grin splitting his face in half now. “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

“I, uh...I actually have some left,” said Angel, eyes flitting to the floor. His fur looked slightly more pink than it had a few moments ago. “I figured since ya spent all the time and put in all the effort ta make ‘em that it was only fair you could eat some.” He quickly tacked on, “But only if ya wanted. I just figured—“

Alastor stopped him by squeezing with the claw which was somehow still tenderly caressing Angel’s face. “It sounds delightful.”

The smile he got in response was almost blinding.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor and Angel talk over beignets, and Alastor reassures the spider.

“Anthony.”

Alastor looked up from the beignet he was tearing in two. Angel, whose eyes were settled on his lap, held an almost lost type of melancholy. His shoulders had the defeated slope of someone lost in thought, someone missing something dearly but aware they could no longer have it.

The deer only hummed, gentle static coating the sound. He offered the sweet with an extended hand but remained silent, studying the way Angel fiddled with his hands and dug into his bottom lip with his golden tooth. The spider only glanced up after a moment when Alastor gently nudged him with the toe of his shoe.

Angel took the beignet with a gentle smile. “T’was my name,” he explained after a moment, though he certainly didn’t owe Alastor any explanation. The radio demon was a private individual and so he understood the need to keep intimate details to himself: he would not pry if Angel was opposed to it. “During life,” Angel continued needlessly, seeming like he just needed to say something— _anything_ —to rid himself of the increasing discomfort evident in his body language.

Alastor simply hummed again, prompting but not imploring. His teeth punctured the soft choux dough as he continued looking at the spider, who was studying his respective beignet in one gloved hand.

“Sometimes I miss it,” Angel said, expelling a gentle sigh. “Sometimes I don’t _at_ _fucking_ _all_.” His lips curled into a wry smile as he tore off a piece of dough and popped it into his mouth. He turned to Alastor, expression morphing from sad to curious, yet still retaining a note of longing for what once was. “Do ya ever miss it? Livin’?” The last of the beignet disappeared in Angel’s mouth before he drew a shaky hand through his hair. “Pretendin’ that maybe, just _maybe_ , you could be good?”

Alastor seriously considered the question. There were certainly parts of life which he dearly missed: he missed his mother, first and foremost, who had most certainly gone to heaven. She was a doll, one of those sorts of people you’re likely to meet only once in your life—the type that Alastor now felt so strongly inclined to protect because of their optimism, but mostly because they reminded him of her. He supposed it was partly to blame for his startling fondness towards Charlie, but he couldn’t help it. He had taken care of his mother when she became increasingly frail and ill: bathed her, made her meals, ran errands. He became as good at nurturing as he did at killing.

Alastor, however, wrinkled his nose at the remembrance of his father. He had been an imposing man, not particularly large or strong, but the smoldering of his eyes was formidable. He used to beat Alastor’s mother until bruises mottled her skin, until she keened like a mewling animal caught in a bear trap—until Alastor saw and he retracted his hands. He had never pulled away as if he’d actually regretted his actions, rather as if it was a hassle for him to stop. Alastor had never figured out _why_ the beatings happened, but he had a strong suspicion it had to do with the slightest caramel hue of his mother’s skin and the foreign texture of her hair. Once he thought back on it as an adult, he realized their relationship had not been borne of love, but dominance.

That’s why he felt no regret when his father was his first victim. It felt fitting, breaking his cycle of abuse through the use of force.

Alastor had never been good, and he had already known that when he was alive.

“I miss my mother,” he said simply, tapping his claws against his thigh. “Taking care of her especially. She was”— _the only person I ever truly loved_ —“the only one who truly understood me.” He hummed, plucking another beignet from the dish and chewing it in an almost contemplative fashion. “This is actually her recipe,” he said, finding he felt uncomfortable sharing anything more personal with Angel at the moment, but supposing it was probably only fair that he share _something_. Though, it was a somewhat lame piece of information, given Angel probably already suspected it.

“I love her already,” Angel smirked, biting into the choux dough with fervor. “This is almost as addicting as coke.”

The mention of Angel’s namesake made Alastor huff a little chuckle. He quickly sobered when his mind strayed back to the longing he felt to see his mother again. “She was a sweet woman,” he explained, feeling like he needed to explain, somehow. “I probably wasn’t the son she wanted. She deserved better, but she took me in her stride.”

Angel frowned, pastry paused halfway from his mouth. “You were her child,” he said, as if that meant he couldn’t also be a monster.

“I killed people, darling,” he said, noticing the visible shiver overcome Angel’s body. “I killed people, then I ate them. I don’t ever remember a time where I was good.”

But life had been just fine like that. Oh, how Alastor missed being around the innocent. Being surrounded by evil was all well and good because, at least when surrounded by literal demons, there was no way anyone could possibly judge you for your questionable actions. Yet, at the same time, there was no one Alastor felt truly fond of now—sans for Charlie and, more surprisingly, Angel. Angel was by no means _innocent_ —with how much sex he’d had, not to mention that he got _paid_ for it, as well as the fact that he had probably killed his own fair share of people—yet Alastor still felt that characteristic _protectiveness_ which he only felt for those he truly thought were in some way good.

“Can’t say I see the appeal,” Angel muttered, nose wrinkling in distaste as he lounged back on his fluffed pillows. “I already reek o’ sex—imagine the stench if I _ate_ some poor fuckers too. Full offense, but I’ll leave that to _you,_ babe.” The comment wasn’t biting or judgmental—it even sounded somewhat fond. Why Angel would feel fond of a cannibalistic serial killer was a whole other realm, but Alastor wasn’t denying that he _liked_ it. Many people had fallen for his charms, but certainly not after the jig was up and they found out what he truly was—except for Angel.

“Don’t knock it till you try it, my dear.” His voice practically came out as a purr, pillowed by constant droning static.

There was that tremor again. It started in Angel’s neck, trickled down as if water had dropped between his shoulder blades and made a trail down his back. Huh. How interesting. He would have to ask about that later.

“And what’s with the ‘my dear’ and ‘darling’?” Angel had a curious lilt in his voice as he pushed the dish of sweets closer to Alastor, as if to dissuade himself from eating any more. “For someone so bent on being unaffectionate, ya sure lay the pet names on thick.”

Huh—no one had ever brought that to his attention, or even _dared_ try. Now that he thought about it, he did do it an awful lot, but especially towards Angel. Maybe it was something residual from his life: yes, that made sense. His mother had always called him darling and dear; when she pushed him towards school with a kiss on the crown of his head, or when she tucked him in at night, or when she was feeling especially fond and hugged him close to her chest—when she was at death’s door and Alastor took care of her, humming gentle tunes, washing her back. She called him her darling always, and maybe, just _maybe_ , she had instilled one good habit in him after all.

“Habit, I suppose,” he concluded with a shrug, suggesting that he was less sure than he really was. It was only a half-truth, but that was all Alastor seemed good for at the moment. He found that Angel’s eyes were scrutinizing in the din of the room, even though the spider’s gaze was the least judgmental anyone had ever seemed while looking at him. Alastor supposed it _had_ been awhile since he had shared anything about himself, so it was only to be expected that he couldn’t muster much beyond what he was currently giving.

Angel didn’t respond, which in and of itself was surprising. Alastor didn’t say anything else, assuming the spider would pick the conversation back up and run with it. However, it was startlingly quiet for several moments. All Alastor could hear was the throaty static emanating from his own chest and the gentle sounds of Angel’s breathing, made more noticeable with his increased hearing.

“So ya really like me?” Angel said, sounding so small that Alastor couldn’t help but be endeared to him.

“I believe I’ve already said as much.”

A gentle smile flowered on Angel’s face, and Alastor thought—not for the first time—that when Angel was happy he didn’t look like he belonged in Hell. There was an uncharacteristic sympathy in him that most demons, sans for Charlie and a few others, failed to show. Perhaps that was the reason for his confounding desire and need to protect Angel despite the fact that he knew the spider could take care of himself.

“I’ll ignore the fact that it sounded like ya physically hurt yerself by admitting it,” said Angel, still smiling in that unusual way Alastor wasn’t used to. As quickly as he had warmed up to the foreign grin, it left Angel’s face. “I can’t say many people like me, so I’ll take anything I can get really.” He gave a slight laugh, curt and unhappy.

Something hot and heavy swelled in Alastor’s chest. It felt like blooming pain from a punch to the sternum. “The world is full of idiots,” said Alastor.

“It’s no one else’s fault that I’m unlovable, it’s me.” Before Alastor could even begin to tackle that statement, Angel was shushing him with a vice-like grip to his arm. “Ya said it yerself that my flirting made ya uncomfortable—but I never stopped. I just kept going and going cuz I’m just _too much_. You didn’t ever seem to like me before, so I’m sorry if I can’t really believe this is anything more than pity.” Angel slowed slightly, breathing still ragged but edging towards normality. “Then again, pity is probably beneath you. Yer probably just entertaining me cuz I’m amusing. Fucking...whatever. I still want ya here, even if it’s only to laugh at me. Maybe that makes me desperate.”

Alastor gently took Angel’s hand into his own, feeling chastised at the flinch he got in response, but not deterred. “The world is full of idiots,” he said again, “and I was one of them. Trust me, darlin’, if I had never liked you from the start—at least a _tiny_ bit—I could’ve gotten rid of you.” There was that almost imperceptible shiver again. Was the spider cold? “It took me some time to arrive at the conclusion, but I know for certain I like you. I am a man of my word, Angel. I may be a killer, but certainly not a liar.”

Angel was silent as Alastor slowly undid the buttons of his own suit jacket, then draped it over the spider’s shoulders. Wide, mismatched eyes were open in surprise, but filled with fleeting warmth. “You kept shivering,” Alastor explained with a shrug, finding he felt strangely vulnerable, presenting himself to Angel without the extra layer of clothing. Not many demons had ever seen him in such a state of undress.

“I woulda shivered a long time ago if I’d known I could get ya ta strip.” Angel quickly bit his lip after the words left, face souring as if he’d just eaten a lemon. He curled the jacket tighter around his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to say that. I promise my mind is outta the gutter. It’s just…” He looked down as if it was ingrained in him to appear submissive. “Reflex.”

Alastor pushed aside his minor discomfort, if only because that look of sorrow on Angel’s face was unacceptable. “It’s quite alright, darlin’,” said Alastor, trailing one talon along Angel’s cheek. The spider’s breath hitched, then expelled forcefully as Alastor brought his claw down towards his chin. “You’re lucky I’m”— _growing fond of you beyond reasonable measure_ —“tolerant of your presence.”

Angel just let out a breathy chuckle, taking Alastor’s hand and setting it gently in the deer’s lap. It wasn’t a rejection, so why did it feel like one? What were they even doing together, Alastor mused.

“I thought ya said ya liked me,” Angel said, long eyelashes fluttering. Decidedly, he knew what he was doing, but Alastor played into it.

“I do, my dear.” He knew Angel just needed to hear him say it, that he just needed someone to reaffirm that there was someone who actually did like him for _himself_ —not for sex or personal gain. Alastor found that he was proud to be the one to tell Angel he was worthy. “More than you believe.”

Angel smiled in that demure way again, and it left Alastor with an insatiable yearning for it to never leave.


End file.
